


A Fine Frenzy

by dracoqueen22



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, MTMTE Season Two, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, The Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-15 12:30:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17528771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: A revelation in two parts, as an unexpected bit of experimental coding sends Megatron into a heat only a partner will satisfy, and there are so few he believes he can trust, here on the Lost Light.





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Borath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borath/gifts).



It started as a tingle, an unexpected sensation where there should be none, like someone was tickling his lower back with agile fingers. Megatron didn't have to look to know that no one was there. He ignored it, because what was a tingle compared to all the agony he endured on a daily basis? He assumed it would go away in time.  
  
By the next day, the tingle had become a dull, pulsing warmth, radiating outward from his lower back, suffusing his abdomen, his hips, his groin, his belly. It wasn't a pleasant warmth. It throbbed, like that of an infection, and he found it harder to ventilate.  
  
Megatron wanted to blame the fool's energon, the vile concoction the Autobots forced him to consume. Perhaps his frame was rejecting it. He'd already determined there were no known poisons or intoxicants in it. Maybe it was yet another uncomfortable side effect.  
  
That night, his recharge purges were positively obscene, despite being gray and shapeless. He was acutely aware of sensation: hands and mouths and lips and spikes, the slickness of lubrication. His berthpartners were faceless, and all that mattered was the pleasure they offered him. Overload after overload while his frame inflamed with heat, and his spark doubled in size, and he felt as though he would burst from the tension of it.  
  
He onlined with a gasp, his abdomen cramping, a slickness between his thighs from his bared valve, though his spike remained quiescent, tucked unmoving within its sheath. His valve throbbed with the vestiges of an overload, his anterior node swollen and tender.  
  
He knew, in that moment, what it meant. There wasn't a Cybertronian alive who couldn't possibly know what this meant, though it had been centuries upon centuries since he'd last experienced it.  
  
"You're going into heat," Ratchet confirmed, his tone flat and irritated and resigned. "Because why not? It's this ship, it's this fragging cursed ship, because what we need right now is for one of our co-captains to send the rest of the ship into a heat frenzy."  
  
"How?" Megatron demanded.  
  
Ratchet spread his heads. "Your guess is as good as mine." He pointed at Megatron with a firm finger. "You're confined to medbay. You're on medical leave. Right now, you're in isolation. Hopefully, it's not too late to stop this from spreading."  
  
Despite himself, Megatron tilted a smirk at Ratchet, the panic in an underlying layer of the medic's voice a tad bit ridiculous. "Fine. I assume you have accessories to help me manage this?"  
  
Ratchet snorted. "Yeah. I have toys. I'll even deign to share them with you."  
  
Toys indeed.  
  
Ratchet left and came back with a box, items wrapped in sanitizing surgical wrap on the inside, having obviously seen use, but cleaned and maintained after each use. Ratchet's personal collection perhaps. Megatron didn't ask. Sometimes, ignorance was the better course of action.  
  
"I'm going to lock you in," Ratchet said. "But I'll be observing and on standby in case of unforeseen events. Ping me if you need to."  
  
"It's a heat," Megatron reminded him.  
  
"A heat you shouldn't be having," Ratchet retorted with another waggle of his finger. "There's a jug of coolant in the box as well. Stay topped up. And I'll let you out when my sensors determine your heat has run its course."  
  
It was by no means a vacation, but it wasn't the worst vacation Megatron had ever had. A few days to drown in pleasure and not have to deal with the stress of managing the Lost Light? It wasn't too terrible an outcome.  
  
He sipped some of the coolant, unwrapped his toys of choice and set them on the nightstand. The heat was a low simmer in his abdomen, a reminder of his impending volcanic takeover. The urge to seek pleasure was there, but not overwhelming.  
  
Tomorrow perhaps.  
  
Megatron slid onto the berth, made himself comfortable, and went into recharge. He suspected he'd need as much energy as he could reserve. Because the dreams returned that night, far more vivid, far more encapsulating, and twice as demanding. He became a being without restraint, begging for any spike to fill the aching need inside of him. It would have been humiliating, to beg the string of faceless mechs to frag him, had it been happening in a world not born of his dreams. He feared it was a reflection of his subconscious, and he hated every thought of it.  
  
He woke in the grips of a full heat, the need raging through his frame with a harsh snap. He groaned, hands diving between his thighs, heel of one palm scrubbing over his swollen anterior node while his fingers plunged into his valve, curving at the perfect angle to send him into an immediate overload, so sharp it was painful. Megatron shuddered, denta clenched, head tipped back, as he rode his hands again, through another overload quickly on the heels of the first.  
  
He panted, fans aching as they spun from idle to overdrive in the span of a few seconds. He worked his node gently as it pulsed, demanding more, and grabbed blindly for the box of toys, withdrawing the ridged, false spike which had caught his attention earlier. It slid into him without preamble, perfectly thick, grinding over every internal node as its way was eased by the copious amount of lubricant slicking his walls. He thrust it deep, nudged his ceiling node, and shot into an overload, more sharp and bitter than the last.  
  
It felt good, but the pleasure was fleeting. His lines sopped up the spilling charge, and the pulse at the back of his processor demanded more, like the heat was a blackhole, sucking in all pleasure and giving him no relief in return. The overloads should have eased his need, made it easier to think, but if anything, his thoughts turned grayer, dizzier, his fingers more clumsy.  
  
He shoved the toy into him with fast, deep jabs. He rolled his hips, riding the thickness of the false spike, grinding the inner apex node on a ridge of it, and growling as it gave him a fourth overload, then a fifth. But it wasn't enough. The emptiness inside of him lingered. The port at the back of his valve stubbornly stayed shut.  
  
The urge to have more clawed at his spinal strut. He gasped, aching with need, a pain so acute he couldn't ignore it. He felt empty, his internals cramping with the force of it. Dizziness struck, and his tank clenched, and he gasped.   
  
He fumbled for one of the vibrators, shoved it over his anterior node, and a shriek spilled through clenched denta as he went plummeting into another overload. The berth beneath him, his aft, were soaked with lubricants. His valve clenched and rippled and throbbed, but it wasn't enough, it wasn't  _working_. His fans shrieked as they spun. His spark strobed panic.  
  
"Ratchet!" Megatron all but shouted through the comm, his head spinning so hard he couldn't focus on anything but the gripping, clawing yearning trying to tear him inside out. "Something's wrong. Something's--" He choked off a cry as another overload clamped down on the spike, and he rode it, grinding the nubs over his nodes, and it felt good in a way that it hurt, like he was overstimulated, but not getting enough either.  
  
He didn't hear Ratchet respond.  
  
But he didn't hear the door open, or hurried footsteps either. He didn't sense Ratchet's arrival until the cold prick of a needle plunging into the side of his intake rocketed him into a vague sense of rationality.  
  
Cool relief spread outward from the injection. Tense cables gradually relaxed, his frame easing out of what was apparently a seizure, Megatron curling into himself in an attempt to both seek more pleasure, and escape from the agony of the heat. He panted, unclenching, forcing the toys away from his tender valve, the smell of lubricant and overloads thick and tangy in the air. His vision swirled until it clarified into Ratchet's concerned face.  
  
His lips were moving. "--a suppressant, but it'll only last for about two hours before it starts causing more damage than the heat," Ratchet was saying, and his tone hinted with frustration, though his hands were gentle.  
  
"What..." Megatron paused, rebooted his vocalizer because that sounded staticky to him. Had he been screaming? "What happened?"  
  
Ratchet sighed, and he genuinely looked regretful. "I was afraid of this," he said as he moved the box of toys aside, throwing the used ones into it, perhaps for later cleaning. "You're going to need a partner, Megatron. Whatever forced this heat on you, it demands a partner."  
  
Megatron's mouth moved, but he could force no words out. Not immediately. "That's preposterous," he said, wiping his sticky hands on the berth cover. He couldn't get his valve to close, no matter how hard he tried. "Heats have never required a partner."  
  
"I don't know why you went into heat in the first place," Ratchet said, his words a bit testy but his tone patient. "You shouldn't be able to. I don't know what Shockwave did to your frame, but clearly, it's altered some of your core programming. I need to research it, but I don't have enough time to find a solution right now."  
  
Shockwave. But of course. He should not be surprised. He had accepted Shockwave's upgrades numerous times during the years. Shockwave had always spoken of the continuation of Decepticon greatness. Megatron had apparently put his trust in the wrong mech.  
  
"If you're going to survive this, you'll have to have a partner," Ratchet said, still gentle, still careful. "Is there anyone--"  
  
"You," Megatron interrupted. He didn't have to think about it.  
  
Ratchet shook his head. "I can't."  
  
"Can't or won't?" Megatron demanded, ignoring the sharp stab of anger and self-loathing which threatened to penetrate his spark. Because of course Ratchet couldn't bring himself to frag the scourge of the universe, not even to save a spark.  
  
Ratchet cycled a ventilation, and his field pressed warmly to Megatron's with regret. "Can't."  
  
Megatron's free hand formed a fist, and he snarled, "This is a ship full of Autobots who despise me. This is a death sentence."  
  
"It is not. We have crew who don't outright despise you. Nautica, for example, only knows of you by reputation."  
  
Megatron grimaced. "No." The Camien scientist wasn't unappealing, but he barely knew her, he certainly didn't trust her, and it made his armor crawl to think of presenting himself to her in such a weakened state.  
  
"You have to ask someone, Megatron!" Ratchet insisted, his field flickering with agitation and something else, something under the surface.  
  
Yes. He did.  
  
If he wanted to survive this, he'd have to trust someone, and clearly, Ratchet was not an avenue open to him. He didn't fancy submitting himself to one of the other medics either. There was an anger in First Aid, a deep-seeded loathing. Perhaps not for Megatron, but for something. No, Megatron did not trust the other medic. Not that he trusted anyone aboard this ship, save Ravage, and that also was an avenue he could not take.  
  
He would have to settle for a certain flavor of trust. Someone who could keep their mouth shut, who wouldn't harm him on principle alone, who might be convinced to agree.  
  
Perceptor might be pragmatic enough. He was a scientist and those could generally be trusted to be interested in their science. Then again, it was a scientist who had done this to him, and he didn't fancy becoming anyone's experiment.  
  
No, not Perceptor.  
  
Pragmatism, however, set him upon a new thought path. Pragmatism, someone with a sense of honor, who could be trusted to stick to the letter of the law. Who he had, already, put his life in the hands of before, and come out the better for it. Someone else who understood how it felt to have the autonomy of one's body stripped away by another.  
  
"Ultra Magnus," Megatron said.  
  
Ratchet arched an orbital ridge. "Really?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing. I just... no, it makes sense." Ratchet shifted back, folding his arms over his chassis. "I'll ask him, but you realize he's going to agree. Or is that why you suggested him?"  
  
Megatron pulled himself upright, more comfortable sitting back against the wall than reclining in front of Ratchet, even if he still couldn't get his valve panel to close. "As my survival is dependent upon someone agreeing, what do you think?"  
  
Ratchet gave him a long, searching look. "Fine. I'll ask him. But you stay here."  
  
"I have no intentions of going anywhere," Megatron replied honestly. He didn't want anyone to get a whiff of him in his current state. He didn't want any Autobot taking advantage of him as some sort of payback. He didn't particularly like being so vulnerable in a place where he was surrounded by enemies.  
  
"Right."  
  
Ratchet left, the door closing and locking behind him.  
  
Megatron waited for several long moments before he swung off the berth, his frame creaking as though he'd spent the past week battling enemies without rest. He ached, all the way to his core, and his gestational tank rippled with cramps. It was only going to get worse from here on out, he remembered from a few past experiences with heat. Granted, both of them had been with willing partners on both sides, and while sparking hadn't been their intention, it had been a good time for all.  
  
He slipped into the washracks, flicking it to a higher setting. Steaming hot solvent sprayed down, cascading over his frame, and his sensitive derma tingled, sending a wave of pleasure through him. Even through the dampening effect of the suppressant, Megatron shuddered, swallowing down a low groan. He scrubbed quickly, spraying the drying lubricant from his thighs and around his bared valve.   
  
He tried not to think about what would be happening soon. He had fought so hard to ensure he would never lose control of himself again, and it had come to nothing. His frame behaved on its own, he had to rely on the assistance of others to recover, and he would have to trust someone he did not want to trust. He would be vulnerable in a place where he already had no allies and no defenses.  
  
Megatron slammed off the solvent and snagged a towel, wiping himself dry in quick, efficient strokes. His fingers shook. He ignored them. He was stronger than this. He was stronger than anything the universe or the gods could throw at him. This would not defeat him.  
  
He stalked back into the berth room and tore the dirtied sheets from it, balling them up and tossing them into the corner. He rummaged in the room's cabinet, produced a fresh set, and redressed the berth. The last thing he needed was for Ultra Magnus to arrive with Megatron lying in a pool of soiled covers and lubricant. He didn't want to come across as any more desperate than he already was.  
  
His comm pinged right as he smoothed the top cover into place.   
  
“Ultra Magnus has agreed,” Ratchet said, clipped and flat. “We’ll be there shortly.”   
  
He didn’t wait for Megatron to respond. Not that Megatron had a ready reply .   
  
The anxiety threatened to swirl again. He hoisted himself onto the berth, legs loosely together, to hide his bare valve. He would meet Ultra Magnus with a steady gaze, with a tight grasp on command and control.   
  
This would not defeat him.   
  
Nothing could ever defeat him.   
  


~

  
  
Ultra Magnus was a mech who tried to be prepared for anything. Any possible eventuality, complication, Rodimus’ misbehavior…  
  
He’d written an entire guide, purely for his own reference of course, of how he should respond in both vague and specific situations. He’d taken the time to research appropriate reactions and plans of action, relying on both textbooks and lawbooks and personal anecdotes from historical mecha he’d admired.   
  
Even so.   
  
Nothing in all of his preparations could have qualified him for this. For Ratchet arriving at his door with a solemn look on his face, lines of fatigue drawn into his features, his field muted and reluctant.   
  
“Megatron’s gone into heat,” Ratchet said, with all the tact and grace he was known for. “I don’t think he’s going to trigger a wave on the ship, but it needs to be addressed.”   
  
“All right,” Ultra Magnus replied, confusion peppering like fireworks at the back of his processor. “It sounds as though you have the situation under control. What do you need from me?”   
  
Ratchet’s weight shifted. Discomfort flickered across his face before it curved into a scowl. “He needs a partner. And when I say need, I mean in the sense that it is a requirement.”   
  
Ultra Magnus frowned. “I’m confused.” He tapped his databanks, pulling up all he knew on the relatively common reproductive process. “Standard protocols state that--”  
  
“A mech won’t die for lack of a partner during their heat. Yes, I know.” Ratchet waved a hand a bit impatiently. “One can survive without help. But not in this particular case.”   
  
A dull sense of doom crept around the edges of Ultra Magnus’ spark. “I’m listening.”   
  
“Good. Because this is where it gets complicated.” Ratchet scrubbed at his forehead, age creaking in his joints. “Megatron shouldn’t be able to go into heat, not with the condition his frame is in. This is completely unprecedented, and I can only assume it’s because of some modification Shockwave made.” He spread his hands with a helpless shrug. “I don’t have an answer for you, and right now, we don’t have the time to figure it out.”   
  
Ultra Magnus nodded slowly. None of this explained why Ratchet was here, at his door. He’d yet to hear a question or a request. He’d yet to explain why Ratchet was breaching patient confidentiality so blatantly.   
  
“And what does any of this have to do with me?” Ultra Magnus asked. “You would have called for a staff meeting if you wanted to address this with the chain of command.”   
  
“You’re right.” Ratchet sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose, his shoulders slumping. “Megatron won’t survive the strain of a solo heat. He needs a partner. And he’s asked for you.”   
  
Ultra Magnus froze.   
  
“I… what?” He replayed Ratchet’s words over and over, but they came back the same every time.   
  
Ratchet set his jaw and looked up at Ultra Magnus. “I asked him if there was anyone on the ship he was comfortable assisting him. He named either you or I, and I can’t do it.”   
  
Ultra Magnus didn’t ask why. It wasn’t any of his business.   
  
He cycled a ventilation. He felt still as a statue, the request resonating through his frame, down to the very overlarge spark of Minimus Ambus.   
  
Any other time, Ultra Magnus would have been flattered. Trust was such a fragile thing, heavy for what it asked, and so hard to acquire. Trust was worth more than its weight, and could be a burden. Trust was something which required careful cultivation and time and effort.   
  
Megatron had asked for him, for Ultra Magnus, because he  _trusted_. And that, yes that, was quite the heavy weight.   
  
“I see,” he said. “Then I shall come at once.”   
  
Ratchet squinted at him. “Are you sure?”   
  
“There is no other choice, yes?”   
  
Ratchet’s silence was all the answer Ultra Magnus needed.   
  
He nodded and stepped out of his hab, letting the door lock shut behind him. “Then I shall come.”   
  
And so he did.   
  
He followed Ratchet back to the medical bay, to the private room in the furthest corner, far from where anyone might be nosy. He felt, in a word, removed. From the situation, from his frame, from the churning thoughts in his processor as he brought up volume after volume of law and found nothing of use for this situation.   
  
Megatron was a prisoner, technically, for all that he held a leadership rank. He was an enemy, former and otherwise. He was a danger and a disaster. He was not in a position to make an informed decision regarding his medical care.   
  
Ultra Magnus did not like the gray area of this situation. He had no lines to follow. There were no rules, no guidelines. He was adrift, only able to follow the guiding light of his own moral boundaries.  
  
Ultra Magnus – Minimus Ambus – would also be lying if he said he’d never thought about Megatron in an erotic manner. Despite all that Megatron had done, he was an attractive mech, an intelligent one, a powerful one. It had always been something of an impossibility to Minimus, however, given the circumstances.   
  
He did not like the opportunity as it had been presented to him.   
  
Ratchet led him to the last room on the hall, the panels lit with orange and crimson to indicate it was locked. “I didn’t want him to set off anyone else,” the medic explained as he input the code. “And he doesn’t want anyone else to know.”   
  
“Understood.”   
  
Ratchet’s finger hovered over the last button. “I’ll be monitoring you both from overhead. Right now, he’s on suppressants so he can make somewhat rational decisions, but I can’t keep him on them for long. Talk quickly. Let me know what you decide.”   
  
Ultra Magnus nodded.   
  
The door opened. He slipped inside.   
  
Immediately, he was assaulted with a wave of heat and need. It flooded his energy field, set his sensors to high alert, and his spark strobed a pulse of want. His interface protocols took notice, and everything went haywire. He tasted the arousal in the air, heard the frantic whirr of vents and fans struggling to manage the suffocating heat assaulting a frame.   
  
The door shut and locked behind him. There was little to be found inside: medical equipment, to be sure, but none of it was in use. There was a medberth, sized to accommodate Megatron and a partner, and upon it, Megatron.   
  
His gaze snapped to Ultra Magnus immediately, his crimson optics dark with evident need. “Welcome to my end,” Megatron said lightly, spreading his hands, with that fatalistic humor he’d employed since joining the crew of the Lost Light.   
  
“This will not be your end,” Ultra Magnus said.   
  
There was a chair by Megatron’s berth, perhaps where Ratchet had sat earlier. Ultra Magnus lowered himself into it. Carefully. It creaked beneath him.   
  
This close, he could taste Megatron’s arousal. It made his glossa tingle. He found himself leaning toward the damp heat Megatron exuded, fingers wanting to touch the lines of heated armor. He wanted to follow his fingers with his glossa, desiring to lick into all of Megatron’s intimate places.   
  
“Won’t it?” Megatron grunted, and discomfort flickered across his face. He shifted on the berth, clamping his armor back down. A terrible idea, considering the heat suffocating his frame.   
  
“No.” Ultra Magnus cycled an audible ventilation. He paused to choose his words carefully, bracing his elbows on his knees, threading his fingers together. “Ratchet has told me you requested I assist you. I am here to do just that.”   
  
“Really?” Megatron laughed, though it was a raspy, broken sound. “Does it not break some code of conduct?”   
  
“Honestly? I am not sure.” Ultra Magnus’ glossa swept over his lips before he could stop himself. The heat and scent were dizzying. “There is nothing in the Tyrest Accords to address this situation.”   
  
One orbital ridge arched. “Didn’t you delete those? I seem to recall yet another absurd encounter in a history of them.”   
  
Ultra Magnus cycled his optics. “You’ve read the datalogs.”   
  
“Yes. As any proper captain should.” Megatron’s ventilations hitched. A fan started spinning with an audible clunk. “I appreciate the details in your reports. Rodimus’ leave something to be desired.”   
  
Primus.   
  
Ultra Magnus worked his intake, fingers squeezing against each other. The others might tease him endlessly, but Megatron appreciated it.  _Him_. Respect was inherent. Megatron was, for all the evil he contained, still a great leader. Beyond his deeds, he was a mech to admire.  
  
"I will do this for you, Megatron," Ultra Magnus said, perhaps more solemn than the situation warranted, but necessary. There were no rules or guidelines to tell him how to react. He could only rely on his personal justifications.  
  
He could not, in any shade of conscience, allow a mech to suffer. Not even Megatron. This wasn't battle. This wasn't war. It was common decency.  
  
Megatron chuckled, though there was little humor in it. "Well, that's a relief." Charge flickered out from under his chestplate, a brief, dancing curl of blue before it dispersed. He grimaced. "Soon then?"  
  
"Yes." Ultra Magnus straightened, searching deep within himself for his usual calm. "Is there anything you wish for me to avoid?"  
  
Surprise flicked across Megatron's face before it vanished behind a mask of indifference. "I have no interest in games."  
  
"Granted. I meant, specifically." Ultra Magnus smoothed his palms down his own thighs to hide how his fingers trembled. Excitement or anxiety? Perhaps both.  
  
Megatron's jaw clenched, the cables in his intake tightening. "No pain," he gritted out, after a moment, as though it cost him something to admit it.  
  
Ultra Magnus' spark squeezed. "Only pleasure," he promised. For this, he would hold himself to the highest degree of responsibility and respect. As much as he could, at any rate.  
  
There were no guidelines. Ultra Magnus needed guidelines. If not from an official capacity, then from Megatron himself.  
  
"Then get it over with," Megatron hissed, a touch of a growl in his engine, the rending of fabric accompanying the twist of his fingers in the berth cover.  
  
“Very well.” Ultra Magnus cycled a ventilation, desire growing inside of him, to a point he could barely deny. “Might I ask for you to answer one last question? Purely for my own peace of mind.”   
  
A flicker of pain and discomfort appeared in Megatron’s optics before it was gone. “Make it quick.”   
  
He rested a hand on Megatron’s thigh, as chaste as he could manage. “Do you consent to this?” Ultra Magnus asked. “As much as you can given the circumstances, to clarify.”   
  
Crimson optics met his, need and shame and desperation gleaming within them. “Yes,” Megatron rumbled, a hitch in his vents as a shudder ran over his frame, armor panels fluttering, thigh twitching under Ultra Magnus’ hand. “I consent.”   
  
“Very well.” Arousal sparked heavy and hot through Ultra Magnus’ lines. He couldn’t tear his gaze from Megatron, even as he raised his voice to be heard. “Ratchet, lock the doors and release the suppressant protocols.”   
  
Ratchet’s voice came tinny through the speakers, as the distinct sound of the doors locking echoed through the private medroom. “Understood. Be careful. Both of you.” The line went dead with a defining click.   
  
Megatron managed a chuckle, though it ended on a hitched ventilation, a rev of his engine, a flare of his energy field bursting through the room with a suffocating heat. “It’s nice to know he cares.” He might have tried to sound dismissive, but the protocols lifted, and the change was immediate.   
  
Ultra Magnus watched as Megatron’s armor flared and a long, low groan escaped him. He fisted the berth covers, back arching, thighs parting to reveal his open valve, hips rolling upward. His head tilted back, baring the column of his intake.   
  
“Frag,” Megatron groaned, denta clenched, lips peeled back over them. “I hate this. I  _hate_  this.”   
  
Sympathy flooded Ultra Magnus’ spark. The loss of personal control, forced to rely on another, someone he once considered an enemy. Yes, Ultra Magnus could understand Megatron’s sheer discomfort.   
  
“I know,” he said, gently. “You need only tell me to stop.”   
  
He curved a hand around Megatron’s thigh, let his fingers slide upward, to the heat radiating at the apex. Megatron’s panel was already open, and now freely spilled lubricant, soaking the berth beneath his aft.   
  
“Stopping is not an option at this point,” Megatron ground out through gritted teeth. “Hurry up and get this over with.”   
  
Ultra Magnus' hand seemed to move of its own accord, his fingers seeking the hot wet between Megatron's thighs and stroking over the swollen, pleated folds. "Do you have a preference in position?"  
  
Silence. Hitched ventilation. A pulse of abject need in Megatron's field, like a physical slam against Ultra Magnus' senses. He almost reeled.  
  
Megatron's hips bucked. He rutted against Ultra Magnus' fingers, coating them in lubricant, demanding more with his body.  
  
Ultra Magnus watched, fascinated, as his fingers slipped and slid over Megatron's valve, getting coated in lubricant, biolights blinking rapidly back at him. Megatron's anterior node was plump and swollen, slick where Magnus rolled it under his fingertips, and Megatron moaned. More charge rolled lightning-quick over his frame.  
  
Ultra Magnus licked his lips. "Megatron," he managed, alarmed to find static in his voice. "Do you have a position--"  
  
A hand snapped out, wrapping around his arm just below his elbow, yanking him toward Megatron on the berth. "Frag me," the former Decepticon warlord growled, vents heaving, his optics dark and hungry. "Now."  
  
He was on the berth, between Megatron's thighs, before he fully registered his actions. "Yes, sir," Ultra Magnus blurted out, everything within him snapping to attention.  
  
Legs snagged him about the waist, dragged him closer, heels drumming the back of his thighs. Megatron reeled him in, pulled him down, and bucked up. His valve ground against Ultra Magnus' yet closed panel, and his fingers hooked into armor seams, holding strong.  
  
Magnus braced himself against the berth, and curved a large hand around Megatron's right hip. His panel snapped open, spike jutting free, the rounded head of it brushing over Megatron's anterior node and painting it with slick.  
  
Megatron moaned, a full-frame shudder dancing visibly across his armor. His thighs dug in against Ultra Magnus' hips, splayed wide as they were by the breadth of Magnus' frame.  
  
Megatron was a large, imposing figure. Beneath Ultra Magnus, however, they were of a size. It was intoxicating to realize he did not need to take as much care with Megatron as he might another mech on the ship, as he might a smaller one. Megatron had always been larger than life, formidable, a sturdy foe.  
  
He wanted what Ultra Magnus could offer.  
  
A shudder rippled down Ultra Magnus' spinal strut. He drew in a heavy, humid vent, which tasted strongly of Megatron's heat.  
  
"What are you waiting for?" Megatron growled, and it might have been imposing once, if not for the whine of need at the end. "Frag me!"  
  
"Yes, sir," Ultra Magnus hummed for the second time that evening.  
  
He sank forward, spikehead parting the pleats of Megatron's valve, sliding into slick, grasping heat. Magnus groaned as his spike throbbed, surges of charge immediately grappling to his receptors and sending licks of pleasure up his spine. He sheathed himself in one long, slow push, spike base notched against Megatron's rim and the head of his spike firmly pressed to Megatron's ceiling node  
  
Megatron's backstrut arched, frame open and welcoming, a long and low keen escaping from his intake. His armor fluttered again, spilling more charge, and his valve rippled and clenched in a delightful wave, as if trying to trap Ultra Magnus inside.  
  
He gasped, a tremble starting in his limbs. Restraint? What was restraint except something he was close to losing. The scent of heat was overwhelming, and Megatron's valve welcomed him, and sought to keep him implanted.  
  
Ultra Magnus groaned, reversed by half, and thrust in again, a bit more forcefully, jolting Megatron against the berth. They moaned in tandem, Megatron's fingers clamping on his seams, denting his armor. Marks. Bruises. Memories.  
  
Restraint, he reminded himself. No pain. Only pleasure. The guidelines he had to follow.  
  
He thrust again. Again. Again.  
  
Megatron rose up to meet him, smacking their lower halves together, lubricant spilling free of his valve, dribbling in a fine mess Ultra Magnus longed to clean. Perhaps with his glossa. Perhaps later. His vents roared as he moved, faster and faster, driving Megatron into the berth, hips swiveling, grinding against the swollen ceiling node demanding attention. He rubbed his spikehead against the closed iris guarding Megatron's gestational tank, there at the deepest apex of Megatron’s valve.  
  
A sharp cry of pleasure echoed through the room as Megatron tightened around him, release spilling over his frame in a wave of blue fire, his valve clamping tight. Ultra Magnus groaned, rutting into the grip of Megatron’s calipers, a buzz building at the base of his spinal strut. That port finally yielded, spiraling open, beckoning to be filled with transfluid.  
  
"Again," Megatron growled, lips parted as he gasped in ventilation after ventilation, his optics hazy with pleasure and need.  
  
Ultra Magnus worked his intake. "May I kiss you?" His mouth tingled. He craved the taste of heat on Megatron's lips.  
  
A hand peeled free, curled around the back of Ultra Magnus' head, and yanked him down into a kiss. One that mingled denta and glossa and lips, more fierce than soft. Ultra Magnus moaned into the kiss, his hips juttering, spike driving deeper as swirls of charge nipped at his receptor nodes.   
  
Overload rocketed through his frame, whisking away his control. Ultra Magnus gripped Megatron’s hips as he spilled, electric charge dancing up and down his spinal strut, world briefly streaking white. He held himself deep, spike spurting stripe after stripe of transfluid until he sank back into his frame, processor twirling and fans gasping for a col vent in the humid air.   
  
Megatron chuckled against his mouth, something dark and dangerous. “You’d better have more where that came from.”   
  
His hips kept moving of their own accord. The twisting, churning mass of pleasure in his belly spun into a tighter coil, as if he hadn’t overloaded at all.   
  
Ultra Magnus gasped, his spike giving a sharp, intense throb. “As many as you need,” he promised, and hoped his frame would live up to the vow.   
  
Hands slid across his armor, fingers tickling into his seams, dragging curls of static along with them. “Good,” Megatron growled.   
  
Ultra Magnus did not whimper, but it was a near thing. There was something altogether intoxicating, consuming even, about the wrap of Megatron’s frame around his. The hot, liquid press of his energy field. The sweet tang of heat in the air, tantalizing to his sensors.   
  
It was too easy to get swept up in it. Easier still to forget that this was an act of boundaries, of life-saving obligation, and not a dip into his most secret fantasies.   
  
He might have kissed Megatron like he meant it. Might have buried his face between Megatron’s thighs to give his spike a chance to resupply, while Megatron grunted and groaned and tugged on his smokestacks. He might have rolled over, pulled Megatron atop him, held the former warlord’s hips as he rocked and rode Ultra Magnus with beautiful abandon.   
  
It was too easy to tip them again, slide between Megatron’s legs, thrust into him slow and steady, determinedly finding each and every one of Megatron’s interior nodes until Megatron shuddered and arched beneath him, sparking with overload. Ultra Magnus’ own ventilations went raspy and sharp, frame struggling to keep up with the need pouring from Megatron’s.   
  
He soldiered on.   
  
It blurred together, overloads and kisses and the desperate clutch of Megatron’s valve, the sharp bite of electric charge, the swell and crash of energy fields. He lost count of the number of times he spilled, only knowing he kept overloading past the point his tanks ran dry.   
  
Megatron's frame demanded more of him, and Ultra Magnus gave all he had, until they were both left gasping and quaking, limp and heated masses of metal slumped together on the berth. A final overload knocked Megatron unconscious, but steady vents and a quiescent field reassured Magnus that all was well.  
  
Only then did he let himself collapse, allowing the sultry tug of recharge to pull him under.  
  


***


	2. Thereafter

Ultra Magnus surfaced from recharge slowly, something he'd come to expect as of late, in the absence of war and immediate threats. He was warm, if not a bit sticky, and it was unusual to sleep in the Magnus armor aboard the Lost Light now that he'd been revealed to be Minimus Ambus inside.  
  
"He's fine," a red and white blur on the edge of Magnus' vision said. "For that matter, so are you. Nothing a bit of recharge won't fix."  
  
Fine? Fix?  
  
Ultra Magnus cycled his optics and rebooted his sensory suites. The blur clarified into Ratchet standing near him, peering at Ultra Magnus over the edge of a datapad.   
  
Memory returned in a slow trickle.  
  
Megatron. Pleasure. Trust.   
  
"The heat... is over?" Ultra Magnus asked, surprised to hear the raspiness in his own vocals. He sounded wrung out and emptied. He certainly felt that way. His system pinged back to him status update after status update, all minor troubles, but troubles all the same.   
  
"Yes. Rather quicker than I would have thought." Ratchet lifted his orbital ridges and gave Ultra Magnus a smirk.  
  
Ultra Magnus turned his head the other direction, discovering why his left side was much warmer than his right. Megatron was actually cuddling him, sprawled over Ultra Magnus' left arm and side, his head pillowed on Ultra Magnus' shoulder. His face was slack with recharge, lines of stress smoothed out.  
  
He was unfairly handsome, and Ultra Magnus' spark gave an odd lurch. Though it was odd he wasn't awake. A mech like Megatron ought to have more responsive threat protocols.  
  
"It's a healing recharge," Ratchet said, answering Ultra Magnus' unasked question. "He won't wake until his frame finishes clearing out the remnants of the heat."  
  
"Did he--"  
  
"--spark? No. I doubt his frame is capable of that." Ratchet scribbled something on his datapad. "Then again, he shouldn't have had a heat in the first place. So who knows?" He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "Anyway, the risk of transmission has passed, so you can leave at any point."  
  
Ultra Magnus pressed his lips together. He glanced at Megatron, still weighing his arm down, lax in recharge.  
  
"I'll wait," he said.  
  
"Suit yourself." Ratchet made another mark and tucked the datapad into a subspace pocket, because it vanished. "There's a washrack through that door should you need it. The door isn't locked for leaving, but no one can bother you. Ping me if you need anything."  
  
"Understood. Thank you, Ratchet."  
  
The medic snorted and took his leave.  
  
Ultra Magnus waited for several moments, listening and counting the sounds of Megatron's steady ventilations. Steady, if not a bit rattled, though his field was quiescent and calm compared to the wild flux it had been last night.  
  
When he could find no reason to linger that didn’t betray something he was trying to deny, he attempted to ease out of the berth. He reclaimed his arm first, and slid the rest of the way, off to the side, out from beneath Megatron’s warm weight. A crease of dissatisfaction flickered over Megatron’s features before it was gone again, and he settled on his front, arms tucked under a pillow.   
  
Was it possible for a genocidal warlord to be adorable?   
  
No. Absolutely not.   
  
Ultra Magnus spun on a heelstrut and made his way into the washracks. He cleaned himself quickly and efficiently, refusing to linger or allow his thoughts to wander, perhaps into reminiscing. He took little note (far, far too much note) of the scrapes on the outside of his hips and thighs, of the dried spatters of lubricant on his groin, of the dents in his armor where fingers had gripped too tight, perhaps out of desperation.   
  
He washed away all lingering traces and scent of Megatron’s heat, until he could in-vent without tasting Megatron on his glossa.   
  
He toweled off with the same efficiency, and made to leave the washracks, until those silly little guidelines reared their head, forcing him to take notice. Personal guidelines, as it were. He went back, grabbed two fresh mesh towels and dampened them.   
  
Megatron was not his lover, but in this moment, this evening, he was. And Ultra Magnus would grant him the same courtesy he’d grant any mech who shared his berth.   
  
He returned, dampened cloths in hand. Megatron had shifted to his back, one arm thrown over his face as though hiding behind it, the other draped across his abdomen. Dried lubricant flecked at his groin, his thighs, and it stained the berth beneath him.   
  
But as Ultra Magnus approached, the arm slid away from Megatron’s face. “You’re still here,” he said.   
  
“Should I have gone?” Ultra Magnus asked. He perched on the edge of the bed, gesturing with the cloths. “Would it bother you if I…?”  
  
Megatron sat up. “I can do it myself.” He swung his legs over the bed on the other side and took the cloths from Ultra Magnus, keeping his back between them. “While I appreciate the assistance, you don’t have to pretend it was anything more than Autobot duty.”   
  
Ultra Magnus picked at the berth covers, stained and rumpled, watching Megatron’s armor shift and flex as he moved to clean himself. “Duty started it, yes,” he said. “And I am sorry you had little choice in the matter.”   
  
Megatron visibly stilled. “I had a choice,” he said, almost too quiet to hear.   
  
“Choosing to die is not a choice.”   
  
“Depends on who you ask.” Megatron chuckled, but it was grating and lacked any humor. “And what choices I did have were honored, so there is that. I’m hardly bothered, Ultra Magnus. Don’t waste your pity on me.” He started to shift again, the sounds of damp cloth over armor barely audible in the room.   
  
“It’s not pity.”   
  
Ultra Magnus turned around, braced his elbows on his knees, stared at the far door. Megatron’s field was completely closed to him, so he could get no sense of the former warlord from it. He realized, belatedly, he missed how open Megatron had been. How the heat had left him completely readable.   
  
“Sympathy then,” Megatron corrected with a chuff of distaste, a hint of sneer in his voice. “I don’t want it either.”   
  
Ultra Magnus clasped his hands together. “I think…” He paused, reevaluated his words, and started again. “I will respect whatever decision you make from here, but understand that I don’t think less of you for what has transpired.”   
  
The berth creaked as Megatron rose from it. His footsteps came in dull thuds around the end of it, and Ultra Magnus straightened as Megatron loomed over him. His expression was one Ultra Magnus could not interpret, not that he’d ever been particularly good at reading others in the first place. They were not books, and this was something one couldn’t learn from books.   
  
“Then what do you think of me?” Megatron asked, and his tone was perfectly even, without an ounce of inflection.   
  
The meshcloth plopped as it hit the wall and slid down, tossed somewhere in the direction of the washracks.   
  
Ultra Magnus squeezed his fingers together and took a steadying ventilation. “There are things that can and can’t be helped,” he started, and furrowed his orbital ridge, shaking his head. “No, never mind. It doesn’t matter what I think.”   
  
“If it didn’t matter, I wouldn’t have asked.”   
  
Megatron crouched and now he looked up at Ultra Magnus, his face set in a contemplative frown, his elbows braced on his knees in a pose not unlike Ultra Magnus’.   
  
“Do you know why I asked for you?” Megatron asked, and there was something silky dark in his tone, something hypnotizing.   
  
“I can honestly say I haven’t the slightest idea,” Ultra Magnus replied, fluster making his words stammer, and heat rise into the cheeks of the Magnus armor. The best approximation of a mech in every way.   
  
“You represented me at my trial,” Megatron said. “And you did so fairly.”   
  
Ultra Magnus opened his mouth, but Megatron shook his head.   
  
“You could have done a poor job of it,” Megatron continued. “You could have offered me little in the way of a viable defense, and no one would have faulted you for it. Instead, you behaved as a mech with honor would. You performed your duty. So I knew, by that alone, I could trust you. Even with this.” He tapped his midsection pointedly.   
  
“I think you give me more credit than I’m due,” Ultra Magnus replied, but he was flushing down to his most minimal self.   
  
Guilt sunk its claws into his spark.   
  
He worked his intake, tangled his fingers together. “I must confess that my intentions weren’t wholly honorable. And by that I mean, I might have harbored some… some...”   
  
Megatron straightened, joints creaking with that of age and need of rest. “I’m giving you all the credit you deserve.” His lips curved then, toward a smirk or a grin, Ultra Magnus wasn’t sure which. “And if you did happen to have ulterior interests, well, perhaps that’s something to be discussed at a later date. When both of us have our wits about us.”   
  
Ultra Magnus cycled his optics. He tilted his head, lines of reasonable deduction drawn between one statement and the other. "We're not of sound mind now?"  
  
"Not at the moment." A grimace stole into Megatron's features. He rose to his feet, swaying a little where he stood. "I need more recharge. I need a bath." He looked down at himself, where Ultra Magnus' paint stood out in lurid streaks against the gray. "I need perspective."  
  
That was something Ultra Magnus could use a bit of as well. Clearly, he had a lot to consider, and while he wasn't trained in the art of reading another mech, he could sense the conflict in the edges of Megatron's field. There was imbalance, and Ultra Magnus couldn't fault him for it.  
  
This situation was unprecedented from all directions.  
  
Ultra Magnus stood as well. "There's a washrack here, and I'm sure Ratchet's going to want to run a few more tests to ensure your health." He slipped around Megatron, edged toward the door, keeping his movement slow, as unthreatening as he could manage with his greater bulk. "I'll leave you in peace."  
  
Megatron caught his arm before he could go too far, though the grip was less firm as it was a careful request. Ultra Magnus shifted to look at him, ignoring the shiver that traveled up his arm and seemed to send a bolt of charge straight to his spark.  
  
"I... appreciate your discretion," Megatron said.  
  
Ultra Magnus nodded. "There is nothing that happened in this room which needs to be shared with anyone else." He paused. "Though Ratchet's knowledge of the situation can't be helped."  
  
Megatron snorted. "No. I suppose it can't." He released Ultra Magnus' arm and tipped his head in the shallowest of nods. "Thank you."  
  
"I don't think..." Ultra Magnus paused, words failing him, and once again, there were no guidelines, no codes of conduct to inform him how to address the situation. He shook his head. "No, this isn't something you should thank me for. I'm glad to be of aid."  
  
He felt he should say something more, but words escaped him, and there was a thickness in the air between them. Expectation. Unspoken things, perhaps. Ultra Magnus didn't know.  
  
So he excused himself instead, slipping into the hall of the medbay, and venting quietly as the door shut and locked behind him. It was oddly bright out here, but the air was thinner, easier to vent. It didn't smell of ozone for one, and the tang of overloads and lingering heat didn't waft around his olfactory sensors.  
  
He paused outside the door to cycle a ventilation, to shutter his optics and find his bearings. He gave himself the space of a minute before he shook himself and started moving again. He had work to do, and with both himself and Megatron out of commission, who knows what poor decisions Rodimus had made.  
  
He didn't get very far.  
  
"Ultra Magnus."  
  
He paused.  
  
Ratchet hovered in a nearby doorway, looking up at him with folded arms. "You all right?"  
  
"Of course. I appreciate your concern."  
  
Ratchet tilted his head. "You look like you've been stomped by a combiner. And I don't mean in the physical sense."  
  
"Granted." Ultra Magnus cycled a ventilation, held himself still. "Today was very unexpected in many ways. I am still... absorbing."  
  
Ratchet snorted. "Yeah. I'll bet." He kicked a foot, his gaze darting past Ultra Magnus and down the hallway, toward the room holding Megatron. "I don't think I have to tell you to be careful."  
  
"You were the one who retrieved me."  
  
"Yes. On his request." Ratchet's optics narrowed. "The heat was genuine, I'll give him that much. I'll even give him a lack of options on this ship. But he's a master manipulator, and you shouldn't forget that."  
  
Ultra Magnus worked his jaw. "I haven't."  
  
"You sure?" Ratchet straightened. "You remember I was supervising, yes?"  
  
The heat threatened to crest into his faceplate. "There is nothing you could have seen to indicate otherwise."  
  
"Not from my perspective." Ratchet sighed and lowered his hand, only to rub his fingers over his forehead. "Look, I'm not here to tell you what to do or think or believe or... feel. I just want you to be careful."  
  
Ultra Magnus frowned, however slight. "I appreciate the concern, and I'll take your advice in hand."  
  
"That's all I'm asking." Ratchet pushed off the frame and rubbed his face. "All right. I need some recharge. This crew is driving me crazy."  
  
"But we greatly appreciate the breadth of your care."  
  
Ratchet snorted. "You can save the flattery. I don’t need it.” He stepped back into the doorway and belatedly, Ultra Magnus realized it wasn’t Ratchet’s office as he’d first surmised, but a back entrance into private quarters, likely Ratchet’s. “If anything should crop up, you know where to find me.”   
  
Ultra Magnus made a noncommittal noise as the door closed on Ratchet, leaving Ultra Magnus alone in the hallway. Well, alone except for his thoughts.   
  
He was going to be thinking about this for a long, long time.   
  


~

  
  
Megatron cycled a ventilation. Two. Three.   
  
In and out. In and out. He counted the rhythm, tracked the beats of his spark, until they matched a calm pattern he knew so well.   
  
The heat was gone. He could discern that much. The aching, virulent need had left his frame. There was, distantly, a trace of something winding through his circuits. The sharp ache of a night spent in pleasure.   
  
He remembered too much of it. He remembered all of it.   
  
The consideration Ultra Magnus had given him went above and beyond what Megatron anticipated. Cool regard. Polite indifference. Professional care. All of those had been expected.   
  
What Ultra Magnus had done for him was on an entirely different spectrum. He’d been precise and cautious, yes, but in a way that suggested he genuinely cared for Megatron’s comfort. He’d offered pleasure more than he’d taken it. Every action had been preceded by a request for permission, as much as Megatron could give anyway.   
  
He hadn’t left.  
  
He could have walked out as soon as the satisfied heat pulled Megatron into a healing stasis. He could have left the berth and no one would have faulted him for it.   
  
Instead he’d stayed. He’d offered to clean Megatron. He’d  _apologized_  as though it were his fault Megatron had such unfortunate circumstances.   
  
It was above and beyond the chilly disdain Megatron expected. He thought he’d want to vanish into the washracks afterward, scrub himself with scorching solvent, while fighting night purges even more than usual.   
  
Instead, he felt… comforted. Reassured.   
  
And he didn’t know what to do about it.   
  
Megatron rose from the berth. He entered the washrack anyway, because he was still somewhat sticky despite the mesh cloth Ultra Magnus had brought him. There were fluids in his seams, his gears, and he stank of interfacing. Scrapes of blue paint dotted his inner thighs. There were handprints on his hips.   
  
He touched them, fingers tracing the dents. Ultra Magnus had apologized for these as well, though Megatron had enjoyed receiving them. Not that he’d admitted such aloud.   
  
Ultra Magnus had seemed to imply deeper feelings. Megatron had dismissed it, thinking he was hearing things, but there had definitely been a reserve in the mech afterward. His field had flickered with shame – at himself and not for having helped Megatron.   
  
An interesting dichotomy, Ultra Magnus was. A confusing one.   
  
Megatron flicked off the washrack and stepped out, dripping, wiping at himself with half-distracted interest. It took far too long for him to realize he wasn’t alone, and only self-control kept him from overreacting.   
  
“Do you have bad news for me?” he asked.   
  
Ratchet snorted from where he sat at the berthside chair, feet crossed at the ankles, his arms folded over his chassis. “You’re not sparked. The heat is passed. You’re safe.”   
  
“That’s not an answer.”   
  
“You want me to tell you that I’ve figured out what Shockwave did to you. I can’t. At least, not yet.” Ratchet tilted his head, optics keen and bright as they flicked over Megatron from top to bottom. “How do you feel?”   
  
Megatron balled up his towel and tossed it into the corner with the rest of the laundry. “The heat’s gone. But you know that already.”   
  
“Just like you know that’s not what I meant.” Ratchet raised both his orbital ridges, and a lifetime of experience flashed through his optics.   
  
No. Megatron was not having a spark to spark with Ratchet. He might have trusted Ratchet more than most mechs on this ship – for a certain definition of trust – but he wasn’t going to open himself up to the medic anymore than he already had.   
  
"I am no worse off now than I was before the heat. You don't have to worry about me."  
  
"Who's worrying?" Ratchet's shoulders bobbed, and he dropped his arms, pulling his creaky mass to his feet. "But if you want to talk to someone or--"  
  
"I won't," Megatron interrupted.  
  
Ratchet paused, pressed his lips together, cycled a ventilation. "If you want to talk to someone," he continued, stubborn to his spark. Megatron had always respected him for that. "I will always hold your confidence, and you know Rung is available."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind."  
  
Ratchet sighed audibly, a gusty sound with a rattle at the end. He scrubbed his forehead with two fingers. "All right. I'm going to get some recharge. I suggest you do the same." He moved to the door, still talking. "If you start feeling any resurgence, let me know. And I'll find out what I can about your frame."  
  
Megatron inclined his head. "I appreciate your discretion."  
  
"You know, you could just say 'thank you'. That works, too." Ratchet opened the door and slipped outside, letting it close behind him. Getting the final word? Megatron should not be so surprised.  
  
Honestly, how did Optimus put up with so much insubordination? Did he appoint anyone to his command staff without an attitude and a stubborn spark?  
  
Megatron palmed his face and cycled a ventilation. He had no idea, when he accepted this outcome for his trial, how bizarre his future would become, here aboard the Lost Light. He shouldn't have been so surprised the madness of this ship would have triggered his heat. He still wasn't convinced this ship wasn't meant to be a punishment for him.  
  
He'd survived his heat relatively unscathed. He supposed he should be grateful for that much. He should count it as a win, and deal with the Ultra Magnus issue later.  
  
Much, much later.  
  


*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: And that's all folks. At least for this one! I do have a sequel percolating in my head. Not sure when it's going to be written or where it's going to go from here, but I definitely feel like there's some story left to tell and I want to tell it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feedback, as always, is welcome, encouraged and deeply appreciated. <3


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